Paul shortcut through a field.
It was not planted yet.
He could not tell his diary
if it was a cornfield.
The farmer had spread manure.
So to Paul it was a cow-barn field.
He had cleaned several cow barns in his life
thus knew the smell.
His squishy steps failed to elicit taps
when he tap danced part of the field.
It was a large field
so the flies did not swarm in his path.
The field’s bouquet filled his nose
with life’s promise.
He spat regularly into the field
so he might leave a little bit of himself behind.
The field would add microscopic amounts
of his DNA to the corn.
He imagined some crows eating an ear of corn
and thinking my that tasted like Paul.
Paul knew if he fell he would laugh at himself
until his new manure-mud-clown face dried.
He arrived at a post at the edge of the field
with a help wanted sign. It read scarecrow.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney